Rile/ 


CHRISTMAS  ROSES. 


A    GIFT    OF    GENTIANS 


OTHER    VERSES 


DY 

MAY     RILEY     SMITH 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  DY  WM.  ST.  JOHN  HARPER  AND  TIIEO.  ROBINSON 
ENGRAVED    BY   E.    HEINEMANN 


NEW  YORK 
ANSON     D.     F.     RANDOLPH    &     COMPANY 

goo   BROADWAY,    COR.    20th   STREET 


COPYRIGHT,    18S2,    BY 

Anson  D.  F.  Randolph  &  Company. 


EDWARD   O.    JENKINS, 

Printer  and  Stereotyper, 
North  William  Street,  New  York. 


To  Jivn  whose  praises  make  my  heart  more  vain 

Than  any  recompense  my  life  can  know  ; 
Whose  patient  hands,  through  every  doubt  and  pain, 

J  fake  easy  places  ivhcre  my  feet  may  go  ; 
A  nd,  to  the  child,  ivhosc  life  has  been  to  me 

The  sivcetest  floivcr  my  bosom  ever  wore  ; 
Whose  little  elbow  leans  upon  my  knee — 

The  lightest  burden  mother  ever  bore  ! 
To  these,  the  sharers  of  my  household  throne, 

I  Those  names  within  my  prayers  together  stand, 
I  dedicate  what  always  is  their  own, 

The  pleasant  labor  of  my  unskilled  hand. 


M26451J2 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  Gift  of  Gentians, 9 

Tired  Mothers, n 

He  Knows  Best, 14 

A  Pompeian  Preacher, 17 

The  Rain, 21 

"Lost — A  Girl," 24 

"Suffer  Little  Children  to  Come  unto  Me," 27 

A  Little  Pillow, 29 

The  Child  that  Belongs  to  Me, 32 

Snowflakes, 35 

If   we  Knew, 37 

My  Little  Boy, 40 

Coming  Home, 45 

Comfort, 4S 

Sometime, 50 

Good-Bye, 53 

Aurora  Borealis, 55 

Some  Violets, 57 

"A  Little  Child  shall  Lead  Them," 60 

Our  Bobby  was  Pinching  the  Kitten, 64 

The  Slighted  Flowers, 69 

Christmas  Roses, 72 

The  Baby  over  the  Way, 74 

A  Flower  Sermon, 7S 

My  Mother Si 

If, 83 

His  Name, S6 

Four, 88 

Jamie's  Prayer,    .               92 

A  Prayer 94 

Christmas  Eve,            9° 

Waiting, 99 

In  Prison, ,c3 


A   GIFT    OF    GENTIANS. 


T    HOU  timid,  fluttering  things,  whose 


'~  £      - 


fringes  rare 
Are  dipped  in  colors  drawn  from 
babies'  eyes  ; 
Whose   robe  of   gossamer  is  spun 
of  air, 
In  the    same    loom  with    June's 
delicious  skies  : 


\      Whose  dainty  hems,  and  skirts  so 
silken  fine, 


The  fairies  trust  no  awkward  brush  to  trace  ; 

I  almost  marvel  that,  with  added  line, 

A  mortal's  hand  could  paint  thy  flower-face  ! 
9 


A   GIFT  OF  GENTIANS. 

But  knowest  thou  not  the  one  who  sought  thee  out 

Holds  in  his  palm  a  magic  strong  and  fine, 
That  with  a  subtler  grace  can  wrap  about 

E'en  so  divinely  fair  a  form  as  thine  ? 
And  so,  with  glad  obeisance  do  I  greet, 

Our  first  acquaintance,  tender,  blue-eyed  things  ! 
For  with  a  benediction  good  and  sweet, 

Thou  foldest  in  my  hands  thy  feathery  wings. 
And  from  this  day  thy  azure  wells  shall  be 

The  mirror  of  a  face  so  true  and  good, 
Thy  sweet  suggestions  can  but  be  to  me 

The  impulse  to  a  better  womanhood  ! 


TIRED    MOTHERS. 

LITTLE  elbow  leans  upon  your  knee, 

Your  tired  knee,  that  has  so  much  to  bear 
A  child's  dear  eyes  are  looking  lovingly 
From  underneath  a  thatch  of  shining  hair  : 
Perhaps  you  do  not  heed  the  velvet  touch 

Of  warm,  moist  fingers,  folding  yours  so  tight. 
You  do  not  prize  this  blessing  overmuch — 
You  almost  are  too  tired  to  pray,  to-night  ! 


But  it  is  blessedness  !     A  year  ago 

I  did  not  see  it  as  I  do  to-day, 
We  are  so  dull  and  thankless  ;  and  too  slow 

To  catch  the  sunshine  e'er  it  slips  away. 


TIRED  MOTHERS. 

And  now  it  seems  surpassing  strange  to  me, 
That  while  I  wore  the  badge  of  motherhood, 

I  did  not  kiss  more  oft  and  tenderly 

The  little  child  that  brought  me  only  good  ! 

And  if  some  night  when  you  sit  down  to  rest, 

You  miss  this  elbow  from  your  tired  knee  ; 
This  restless,  curling  head  from  off  your  breast, 

This  lisping  tongue  that  chatters  constantly  ; 
If  from  your  own  the  dimpled  hand  had  slipped, 

And  ne'er  would  nestle  in  your  palm  again  ; 
If  the  white  feet  into  their  grave  had  tripped, 

I  could  not  blame  you  for  your  heartache  then  ! 

I  wonder  so  that  mothers  ever  fret 

At  little  children,  clinging  to  their  gown  ; 

Or  that  the  footprints,  when  the  days  are  wet, 
Are  ever  black  enoucrh  to  make  them  frown  ! 


TIRED  MOTHERS. 

If  I  could  find  a  little  muddy  boot, 

Or  cap,  or  jacket,  on  my  chamber  floor  ; 

If  I  could  kiss  a  rosy,  restless  foot, 

And  hear  its  music  in  my  home  once  more  ; 

If  I  could  mend  a  broken  cart  to-day, 

To-morrow  make  a  kite  to  reach  the  sky 
There  is  no  woman  in  God's  world  could  say 

She  was  more  blissfully  content  than  I. 
But,  ah  !  the  dainty  pillow  next  my  own 

Is  never  rumpled  by  a  shining  head  ; 
My  singing  birdling  from  its  nest  is  flown— 

The  little  boy  I  used  to  kiss  is  dead  ! 


13 


HE    KNOWS    BEST. 

F  I  could  utter  some  new  magic  word 

To  lull  the  pain  in  one  poor  troubled  soul 
Or  when  Bethesda's  shining  pool  is  stirred 
Could  lift  some  cripple  in  and  make  him  whole  ; 
If  I  could  set  some  bruised  and  tired  feet 

Where  they  could  henceforth  tread  a  smoother  way 
I  would  not  ask  a  gift  more  fair  and  sweet, 
To  bless  me  on  this  happy  Christmas  day. 


If  where  life's  lilies  grow  most  white  and  tall, 

I  could  but  hide  each  tender  little  child  ; 

Away  from  cold  and  dreary  rains  that  fall, 

From  contact  with  the  sinful  and  defiled ; 

14 


HE  KNO  WS  BEST. 

Away  from  rugged  paths,  where  briers  tear 
The  tender  flesh  of  their  small,  rosy  feet ; 

Or  shield  one  little  life  from  sin  and  care, 

I  think  my  Christmas  gift  would  be  complete 

Ah,  foolish  heart,  be  still !     Nor  any  more 

Distrust  the  tenderness  that  is  divine  ! 
He  knows  wherever  feet  are  bruised  and  sore, 

And  gives  them  pity,  gentler  far  than  thine. 
Our  keenest  sorrow  may  be  sent  to  bring 

The  dearest  guest  our  life  has  ever  known, — 
Sweet  patience,  who  in  gathering  the  sting 

From  other's  lives,  forgets  about  her  own. 

And  there  are  old  sweet  words  of  truth  and  love, 

As  full  of  meaning  as  a  mother's  kiss, 

Which  fall  like  benedictions  from  above, 

And  never  weary  in  a  world  like  this. 
15 


HE  KNOWS  BEST. 

Bethesda's  pool  is  nearer  than  we  think, 
It  springs  wherever  there  are  tired  feet  ; 

The  gift  you  crave  lies  trembling  on  its  brink, 

You  still  may  make  your  Christmas  da}-  complete  ! 

And  if  God  wills  that  even  baby  feet 

Shall  feel  the  sharpness  of  life's  toilsome  way, 
Be  sure  that  recompense  most  full  and  sweet 

Is  waiting  for  these  little  ones  some  day. 
And  though  it  may  be  hard  to  understand 

The  way  through  which  He  leads  your  life  and  mine, 
May  we  not  safely  trust  the  gracious  hand 

That  brings  to  us  so  cfood  a  Christmas  time? 


tG 


A    POMPEIAX    PREACHER. 

EAR,  dainty  little  "  Maiden  Hair," 
Whose  slender  figure,  trim  and  fair, 
Apparelled  in  the  softest  green, 
Seems  fit  for  court  of  faerie  queen  ; 

I  marvel  much  that  without  fear 
Your  tender  life  finds  shelter  here, 
Where  silence,  death,  and  grim  decay 
Stalk  like  pale  phantoms  day  by  day  ! 


No  little  child  with  dancing  feet, 

Embroiders,  by  its  presence  sweet, 
17 


A  POMPEIAX  PREACHER. 

A  thread  of  grace  within  the  gloom 
That  curtains  every  silent  room. 

The  sunshine  with  its  soft,  warm  feet 
Shrinks  back  from  the  unfriendly  street, 
And  God's  free  light  steals  through  the  doors 
And  shivers  on  the  mosaic  floors  ! 

The  timid  lizard  noiseless  glides, 

The  slothful  snail  in  calm  abides  ; 

But  nothing  that  is  fresh  or  fair 

Dwells  here  save  thee,  dear  Maiden  Hair  ! 

The  place  where  thou  dost  choose  to  be 

Was  once  a  hall  of  equity  ; 

A  court  where  Justice,  stern  and  cold, 

Untouched  by  Mercy,  ruled  of  old. 
18 


A  POMPEIAN  PREACHER. 

Too  delicate  art  thou  and  fair, 
To  dwell  in  such  a  chilling  air  ; 
And  yet,  within  these  ruins  gray, 
Thou  livest  thy  perfect  life  to-day. 

Thou  art  a  preacher,  sweet  and  good, 
And  this  low  niche  where  thou  hast  stood, 
Thy  pulpit,  from  whose  tiny  walls 
A  sermon,  quaint  and  earnest,  falls. 

Oh,  patient  lives  that  sunless  are, 
From  whom  bright  fortune  stands  afar ! 
Thou  earnest  not  to  thy  present  state 
By  any  careless  chance  ;  but  Fate, 

Whose  name  is  God,  hath  planned  it  so, 

With  kinder  forethought  than  we  know  ! 
19 


A  POMPELiX  PREACHER. 

And  if  athwart  thy  web  of  gray, 

Thou  ruimest  no  brightness  day  by  day, 

Be  sure  thou  hast  not  wrought  so  well 
As  this  shy  flower,  whose  name  I  tell  ;— 
This  dweller  in  Pompeian  air — 
My  little  preacher,  "  Maiden  Hair  !  " 


THE   RAIN. 


HE  brooks  leaped  up  to  catch  it, 

And  the  breezes  held  their  breath 

The  lilies  sprang  up  boldly 

And  shook  their  heads  at  death. 

The  roses  blushed  to  crimson 

At  the  kisses  of  the  rain  ; 

And  the  sun  looked  out  and  saw  it 

With  a  flush  of  jealous  pain. 
21 


THE  RAIN. 

The  thirsty  little  river, 

Through  the  faded  grass  that  led, 
Began  to  flash  and  sparkle 

Like  a  chain  of  silver  thread. 
It  tinkled  through  the  meadow 

Where  the  unraked  clover  lay, 
Lifting  its  rosy  blossoms, 

As  the  rain-king  passed  that  way. 

It  left  its  fragrant  blessing 

Along  the  dingy  street, 
It  cooled  the  heated  pavement 

For  the  tread  of  tired  feet  ; 
It  stole  within  the  chamber 

Where  a  sick  one  longed  for  death, 
And  filled  the  slender  nostrils 

With  the  health  of  its  balmy  breath  ! 


THE  RAIN. 

It  laid  on  the  fluttering  pulses 

The  hand  of  a  wondrous  calm, 
And  poured  on  the  quivering  eyelids 

A  sweet  and  slumberous  balm  ; 
It  drew  from  the  feverish  forehead 

The  burning  arrows  of  pain, 
And  the  tired  watchers  slumbered 

At  the  word  of  the  blessed  rain  ! 


23 


"  LOST— A   GIRL." 

H,  say  !  have  you  seen  my  Alice 
Anywhere  on  Life's  street, 
Among  the  army  of  children 
Everywhere  that  you  meet  ? 
Her  hair  was  in  yellow  tangles, 

There  were  prints  of  sweets  on  her  face, 
She  spoke  in  a  broken  language, 
And  lisped  with  a  child's  rare  grace. 


Has  nobody  seen  this  hoyden, 

This  queer  little  girl  in  blue, 

With  a  rent  in  her  wee  white  apron 

And  a  gap  in  each  scarlet  shoe  ? 
24 


"LOST— A   GIRL." 

Her  shoe-strings  were  always  dangling, 
And  her  stockings  sure  to  be 

Loosed,  and  showing  the  dimples 
Set  in  each  rosy  knee. 

If  angels  had  stolen  our  Alice 

Away  from  her  life  of  play  ; 
If  under  a  matting  of  daisies 

We  had  hidden  our  girl  away  ; 
If  I  could  know  she  had  loitered 

The  Heavenly  gateway  through, 
I  should  think  some  day  to  find  her, 

My  little  daughter  in  blue. 

The  birds  have  learned  to  answer 

When  her  name  I  sadly  call, 

But  the  voice  of  my  little  truant 

Is  silent,  in  room  and  hall. 
25 


"LOST—A   GIRL." 

I  see  a  beautiful  woman 

With  my  grandchild  at  her  knee, 
But  my  little  heedless  Alice 

Will  never  come  back  to  me  ! 


26 


"SUFFER    LITTLE    CHILDREN    TO   COME 
UNTO    ME." 

T  was  long  years  ago  that  He  uttered 
This  message,  so  tender  and  sweet, 
And  women  were  crowding  about  Him 
And  laying  their  babes  at  His  feet. 
He  looked,  with  a  gentle  compassion, 

On  the  mothers  who  knelt  at  His  knee, 
And  He  comforted  them  with  this  saying, 
"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me." 

From  over  the  hills  of  Judea, 

Down  through  the  long  line  of  the  years, 

That  Voice  of  ineffable  sweetness 

Still  comforts  the  mother's  sad  tears. 
27 


'SUFFER  LITFLE  CHILDREN." 

O  Heart  that  has  bled  for  our  sorrows  ' 
O  Voice  that  can  quiet  the  sea  ! 

Come  often  to  me  with  Thy  whisper : 
"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me  !  " 

O  mothers,  whose  children  are  lying 

Out  under  the  snow  and  the  rain, 
Let  the  beautiful  words  of  the  Master 

Give  ease  to  your  sorrow  and  pain  ! 
He  holds  their  bright  heads  on  His  bosom, 

He  gathers  them  close  to  His  knee, 
And  tenderly  still  He  is  saying, 

"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me  !  " 


23 


A    LITTLE    PILLOW 

ITTLE  pillow,  do  you  think, 

With  your  frills  and  bows  of  pink, 
You  can  faithful  be  and  true, 

To  the  trust  I  give  to  you  ? 

In  your  laces,  here  and  there, 

I  have  stitched  a  silent  prayer 

For  the  little  child,  whose  face 

Soon  will  give  a  needed  grace 

To  the  work  my  hands  have  wrought 

With  full  many  a  tender  thought. 

Underneath  each  knot  of  pink 

Hides  a  sleepy  elf,  I  think, 
29 


A  LITTLE  PILLOW. 

Who,  with  tricks  so  sly  and  wise, 
Fastens  down  the  baby's  eyes  ; 
Wraps  him  round  from  brow  to  feet, 
With  a  rest  so  soft  and  sweet, 
That  he  cries  in  grieved  surprise, 
When  he  opens  wide  his  eyes, 
Just  because  he  can  not  keep 
All  the  treasures  of  his  sleep  ! 


To  each  feather  soft  and  white 

I  have  whispered  dreams  so  light, 

That  the  baby's  sleep  will  be 

Full  of  peace  and  purity. 

What  though  velvet  cheek  and  lips, 

With  their  rosiness  eclipse 

Every  touch  of  puny  skill, 

I  have  wrought  with  loving  will  ? 
30 


A  LITTLE  PILLOW. 

How  could  anything  compare 
With  a  baby  fresh  and  fair? 
How  could  God's  work,  pure  and  fine, 
Ever  harmonize  with  mine  ? 

Little  pillow,  do  you  think, 
With  your  frills  and  bows  of  pink, 
You  can  faithful  be,  and  true 
To  the  trust  I  give  to  you  ? 


31 


THE  CHILD  THAT  BELONGS  TO  ME. 


From  the  blue  in  his  handsome  eyes  ; 
32 


THE  CHILD  THA  T  BELONGS  TO  ME. 

And  this  is  the  sweetest  thought  there  can  be — 
This  beautiful  boy  belongs  to  me  ! 

Sometimes  when  we  walk  where  the  lily  blows, 

She  frowns  with  a  sullen  grace  ; 
And  even  the  violet  jealous  grows 

When  my  little  one  breathes  in  her  face  ; 
And  the  rose  bends  low  in  a  courtesy 
To  the  beautiful  boy  that  belongs  to  me. 

His  wonderful  voice  !     Oh,  who  can  tell 

Wherever  he  caught  its  note  ? 
Not  a  whit  less  sweet  than  the  mellow  bell 

That  swings  in  the  robin's  throat  : 
Is  it  strange  that  my  heart  overflows  with  glee 
When  this  sweet-voiced  boy  belongs  to  me  ? 

Whenever  I  go  to  the  market-place 

I  carry  him  proud  and  high, 

33 


THE  CHILD  Til  A  T  BELONGS  TO  ME. 

That  all  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  face 

Before  we  have  passed  them  by ; 
For  I  want  the  whole  wide  world  to  see 
That  this  beautiful  boy  belongs  to  me  ! 

They  tell  me  the  world  is  a  dreary  place, 

And  heavily  sown  with  tears  ; 
But  when  I  look  in  my  child's  dear  face, 

My  heart  is  too  glad  for  fears  ; 
Glad,  as  the  good  Lord  meant  me  to  be, 
When  He  gave  this  beautiful  boy  to  me  ! 

Nor  will  I  burden  my  days  with  sighs, 
Lest  God  for  my  child  should  send  ; 

For  whether  he  lives  or  whether  he  dies, 
He  is  mine  till  Eternity's  end. 

And  I  fear  no  harm  to  baby  or  me, 

Since  both,  O  Father,  belong  to  Thee  ! 

34 


SNOWFLAKES. 

]N  their  errand  of  purity  softly  they  go, 

A  million  fair  doves  from  the  clouds  swoop- 
ing low  ! 

They  light  in  my  window,  and  brood  on  my  sill, 
With  milky-white  pinions  down-folded  and  still. 

They  tenderly  flutter  through  by-way  and  street, 
And  fold  their  wings  over  each  stain  that  they  meet  ; 
Until  all  the  hedges,  so  ragged  and  bare, 
Seem  dressed  for  a  bridal  resplendent  and  fair. 

Our  little  brown  cottage  is  battered  and  worn, 

Its  hinges  are  rusty,  its  shutters  are  torn, 

35 


SNOW  FLAKES. 

But  a  beautiful  hand  through  the  dark,  quiet  night 
Has  covered  each  roughness,  and  painted  it  white  ! 

Oh,  often  I  wish  that  some  hand  like  the  snow 
Would  lay  a  white  palm  on  our  faults  here  below  ! 
Instead  of  the  stain  and  the  blackness,  I  ken, 
Our  lives  would  bloom  out  into  whiteness  aeain  ! 


36 


KrJ 

^3 

IF    WE    KNEW. 

F  we  knew  the  baby  fingers 

Pressed  against  the  window-pane 
Would  be  cold  and  stiff  to-morrow- 
Never  trouble  us  again  ; 
Would  the  bright  eyes  of  our  darling 

Catch  the  frown  upon  our  brow  ? 
Would  the  prints  of  rosy  fingers 
Vex  us  then  as  they  do  now  ? 


Ah,  these  little  ice-cold  fingers, 

How  they  point  our  memories  back 
To  the  hasty  words  and  actions 

Strewn  along  our  backward  track  ! 

37 


IF  IVE  KNE  W. 

How  those  little  hands  reminds  us, 

As  in  snowy  grace  they  lie, 
Not  to  scatter  thorns — but  roses — 

For  our  reaping  by  and  by  ! 

Strange  we  never  prize  the  music 

Till  the  sweet-voiced  bird  has  flown  ; 
Strange  that  we  should  slight  the  violets 

Till  the  lovely  flowers  are  gone  ; 
Strange  that  summer  skies  and  sunshine 

Never  seem  one-half  so  fair 
As  when  Winter's  snowy  pinions 

Shake  their  white  down  in  the  air  ! 

Lips  from  which  the  seal  of  silence 

None  but  God  can  roll  away, 
Never  blossomed  in  such  beauty 

As  adorns  the  mouth  to-day  ; 

33 


IF  WE  KNE  IV. 

And  sweet  words  that  freight  our  memory 
With  their  beautiful  perfume, 

Come  to  us  in  sweeter  accents 
Through  the  portals  of  the  tomb. 

Let  us  gather  up  the  sunbeams 

Lying  all  along  our  path  ; 
Let  us  keep  the  wheat  and  roses, 

Casting  out  the  thorns  and  chaff  ; 
Let  us  find  our  sweetest  comfort 

In  the  blessings  of  to-day  ; 
With  a  patient  hand  removing 

All  the  briars  from  our  way. 


39 


MY    LITTLE    BOY. 

HE  old  square  clock  had  struck  the  hour  of 
eight, 
Outside  the  starry  lamps  were  shining  high, 
The  silver  moon  in  regal  splendor  sate 

In  the  blue  glory  of  the  Christmas  sky, 
And  tired  workers  toiling  homeward  late 

Hummed  Christmas  carols  as  they  plodded  by. 


My  little  boy  was  standing  by  my  knee, 

One  small  white  foot  was  bare  upon  the  floor  ; 
A  pair  of  shining  eyes  were  bent  on  me  ; 

His  face  was  eloquent  with  hopes  in  store, 

40 


MY  LITTLE  BOY. 

For  hanging  by  the  chimney  I  could  see 
The  little  fleecy  sock  my  darling  wore. 

He  had  been  telling  me  in  eager  speech 

Of  all  the  treasures  Santa  Claus  would  bring  ; 

There  were  no  bounds  his  sweet  faith  could  not  reach, 
His  trust  was  simple  and  unquestioning, 

While  I  had  learned  the  whole  that  life  could  teach 
Of  bitter  doubt  and  cruel  suffering  ! 

I  listened  to  him  with  a  wistful  prayer, 

I  longed  to  make  some  helpful  faith  my  own  ; 

That  into  my  poor  life  of  grief  and  care 

Might  creep  a  truer  grace  than  it  had  known — 

Some  blessed  trust  that  would  not  prove  a  snare, 
Some  love  more  honest  than  the  world  had  shown. 

And  then  I  said,  "  The  Christmas  is  to  me 

More  sad,  my  boy,  than  you  can  understand  ; 

41 


MY  LITTLE  BOY. 

It  brings  me  gifts  of  pain  and  treachery, 

And  deals  them  through  a  loved  and  trusted  hand. 

It  brings  a  broken  truth  my  staff  to  be, 

And  leaves  me  nothing  that  will  hold  or  stand  !  " 

My  blessed  child  broke  in  upon  my  woe, 

Half  loving,  half  reproachfully  he  said, 
"  You  still  have  something  left  ;  there's  me,  you  know 

Why,  one  might  think  your  little  boy  was  dead  ! 
I'm  little  now,  but  when  I  larger  grow 

I  will  take  care  of  you,  mamma,"  he  said. 

I  caught  him  with  a  passionate  surprise  ; 

I  covered  him  with  kisses  burning  sweet  ! 
My  life  grew  richer,  looking  in  his  eyes, 

Though  other  loves  were  poor  and  incomplete  ; 
And  praying  God  to  make  him  good  and  wise, 

I  tucked  the  cover  soft  about  his  feet. 


And  I  bent  my  head  in  the  rushes, 
And  sobbed  like  a  home-sick  child. 


COMING   HOME. 

HAVE  come  to  the  dear  old  threshold, 
With  eager,  hurrying  feet, 
To  scent  the  odorous  lilies 
That  once  were  so  white  and  sweet. 
To  taste  the  apricots  mellow 

That  crimson  the  garden  wall  ; 
To  gather  the  golden  pippins 
That  down  in  the  orchard  fall. 

I  passed  by  the  uncut  hedges, 

And  up  through  the  thistled  walk. 
And  beside  the  fall  of  my  footsteps 

There  was  only  the  crickets'  talk. 

45 


COMING  HOME. 

The  weeds  grew  high  in  the  arbor, 
And  the  nettles,  rank  and  tall. 

Had  throttled  the  sweet-breathed  lilies 
That  leant  on  the  latticed  wall. 

The  little  white  house  is  empty, 

Its  ceilings  are  cobwebbed  o'er, 
And  the  dust  and  mold  are  lying 

Thick  on  the  trackless  floor. 
There  are  no  prints  in  the  doorway, 

No  garments  hung  in  the  hall, 
And  the  ghosts  of  death  and  silence 

Sit  and  gloat  over  all  ! 

No  eager  faces  of  children 

Brightened  the  window-pane, 

Never  a  peal  of  laughter 

Rippled  along  the  lane  ; 
46 


COMING  HOME. 

So  I  turned  through  the  daisies  yellow, 
That  nodded  to  see  me  pass, 

To  seek  for  the  mellow  pippins 
That  dropped  in  the  orchard  grass. 

But  I  found  a  worm  in  my  apples, 

And  flung  them  sadly  away, 
And  the  pool  that  I  thought  eternal 

All  foul  and  poisonous  lay. 
A  black  snake  crept  from  its  hiding 

And  hissed  in  the  marshes  wild, 
And  I  bent  my  head  in  the  rushes 

And  sobbed  like  a  homesick  child  ! 


47 


El 

pi 

COMFORT. 

F  I  could  lay  my  hand  upon  the  heart 

That    moulders    underneath    the    church- 
yard snows, 
And  bid  the  sleeping  pulses  wake  and  start, 
And  to  the  faded  lips  restore  the  rose  ; 

If  I  could  lead  the  precious  child  you  love 

With  shrinking  footsteps  to  his  earthly  place  ; 

If  I  could  bring  him  from  the  fold  above, 
The  tangled  paths  of  life  again  to  trace  ; 


Say  !  would  you  bid  him  lay  his  glory  by, 

That  you  might  hold  him  to  your  troubled  breast  ? 


43 


COM  FOR  T. 

And  would  your  yearning  mother-heart  deny 
The  good  to  him,  that  you  might  thus  be  blest  ? 

I  know  your  answer  !     Tenderly  enough 

Has  God's  sweet  mercy  through  His  smiting  shone. 

Young  feet  are  tender,  and  the  way  is  rough  ; 
Be  glad  that  you  can  tread  the  thorns  alone  ! 

It  is  not  long.     The  way  is  short  between, 
And  we  are  near  the  gates  of  pearl  and  gold, 

And  yonder  rise  the  hills  of  living  green, 

Where  children  never  die,  nor  yet  grow  old  ! 

And  when  the  storms  shall  beat,  and  rains  shall  fall, 
And  when  you  faint  beneath  the  sun's  fierce  ray, 

O  friend,  be  glad  !  and  sing  above  it  all, 

"  My  child  is  safe  from  all  these  ills  to-day  !  " 

49 


SOMETIME. 

OMETIME,  when  all  life's  lessons  have  been 
learned, 
And  sun  and  stars  forevermore  have  set, 
The    things    which    our    weak     judgments    here    have 
spurned, 
The  things  o'er  which  we  grieved  with  lashes  wet, 
Will  flash  before  us,  out  of  life's  dark  night, 

As  stars  shine  most  in  deeper  tints  of  blue  ; 
And  we  shall  see  how  all  God's  plans  are  right, 

And  how  what  seemed  reproof  was  love  most  true. 


And  we  shall  see  how,  while  we  frown  and  sigh, 

God's  plans  go  on  as  best  for  you  and  me  ; 

50 


SOMETIME. 

How,  when  wc  called,  He  heeded  not  our  cry, 
Because  His  wisdom  to  the  end  could  see. 

And  even  as  wise  parents  disallow 

Too  much  of  sweet  to  craving  babyhood, 

So  God,  perhaps,  is  keeping  from  us  now 

Life's  sweetest  things,  because  it  seemeth  good. 

And  if,  sometimes,  commingled  with  life's  wine, 

We  find  the  wormwood,  and  rebel  and  shrink, 
Be  sure  a  wiser  hand  than  yours  or  mine 

Pours  out  this  potion  for  our  lips  to  drink. 
And  if  some  friend  we  love  is  lying  low, 

Where  human  kisses  can  not  reach  his  face, 
Oh,  do  not  blame  the  loving  Father  so. 

But  wear  your  sorrow  with  obedient  grace  ! 

And  you  shall  shortly  know  that  lengthened  breath 
Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  God  sends  His  friend. 


SOME  TIME. 

And  that,  sometimes,  the  sable  pall  of  death 
Conceals  the  fairest  boon  His  love  can  send. 

If  we  could  push  ajar  the  gates  of  life, 

And  stand  within  and  all  God's  workings  see, 

We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  and  strife, 
And  for  each  mystery  could  find  a  key  ! 

But  not  to-day.     Then  be  content,  poor  heart  ! 

God's  plans  like  lilies  pure  and  white  unfold. 
We  must  not  tear  the  close-shut  leaves  apart, 

Time  will  reveal  the  calyxes  of  gold. 
And  if,  through  patient  toil,  we  reach  the  land 

Where  tired  feet,  with  sandals  loosed,  may  rest, 
When  we  shall  clearly  see  and  understand, 

I  think  that  we  will  say,  "  God  knew  the  best !  " 


GOOD-BYE. 

O-MORROW  night,  when  the  sun  has  hid 
His  gold  in  the  West  away, 
And  the  flush  of  life  has  faded  out 
From  the  beautiful  face  of  day, 
I  shall  sit  in  the  dusk  alone, 
And  you  will  be  far  away. 

Perhaps  we  never  shall  meet  again 

Till  we  lay  life's  burdens  down  ; 
Till  our  foreheads  are  bound  by  a  belt  of  woe, 

Or  clasped  by  a  starry  crown  ; 

Till  we  feel  the  thrill  of  our  Father's  smile, 

Or  tremble  before  His  frown. 
53 


GOOD-BYE. 

And  should  I  reach  the  end  of  the  road 

Before  your  journey  is  done, 
I  will  stand  and  hark  by  the  golden  gate 

Impatiently,  till  you  come  ; 
And  when  I  have  heard  the  fall  of  your  foot, 

My  Heaven  will  be  begun  ! 


54 


AURORA   BOREALIS. 

|HE  northern  cheek  of  the  heavens, 
By  a  sudden  glory  kissed, 
Blushed  to  the  tint  of  roses, 
And  hid  in  an  amber  mist. 
And  through  the  northern  pathway, 

Trailing  her  robe  of  flame, 
The  queenly  Borealis 

In  her  dazzling  beauty  came  ! 

I  stood  and  watched  the  tilting 

Of  each  dainty,  rosy  lance, 
As  it  seemed  to  pierce  the  bosom 

Of  an  emerald  expanse  ; 

55 


AURORA  BORE  A  LIS. 

And  I  thought  if  Heaven's  gateway 

Is  so  very  fair  to  see, 
What  must  the  inner  glory 

Of  the  "  many  mansions  "  be? 

I  thought  of  the  "  Golden  City," 

Where  the  wondrous  lights  unfurl  ; 
Of  its  sea  of  clearest  crystal, 

Of  its  gates — each  one  a  pearl  ; 
Thought,  till  the  glowing  splendor 

Had  quietly  passed  us  by, 
And  the  track  of  Aurora's  chariot 

Bleached  out  from  the  northern  sky  ! 


56 


:i 


SOME  VIOLETS. 

Dear  friend,  I  give 
thee  violets ; 
And  for  my  fee, 


The  fragrant  secret 

of  thy  life 

Disclose  to  me. 


SOME   VIOLETS. 

For  through  it,  like  a  guiding  thread, 

I  scent  the  rue  ; 
And  faintly  track  the  odorous  feet 

Of  heart's-ease,  too. 

Reach  down  on  patient  cords  to  me, 

Thy  brimming  cup 
Of  wise,  sweet  thoughts,  that  I  may  drink, 

And  thus  toil  up 

To  where  thou  art,  so  meekly  high, 

So  far  away, 
I  can  but  kiss  my  eager  hands 

To  thee  to-day. 

Or,  if  I  may  not  reach  so  high, 

Then  be  it  so  ; 

If  I  may  sit  beside  thy  feet, 

'Twill  not  be  low. 
58 


SOME   VIOLETS. 

And,  listening  soft,  my  soul  may  catch, 

In  some  far  sense, 
The  tuneful  impulse  of  a  life 

Serene,  intense. 

Ah,  me  !   I  do  but  spoil  my  work 
With  clumsy  phrase  ; 

And  mar,  with  my  uncultured  speech, 
Where  I  would  praise. 

So  I  will  lay  my  heart's-ease  down 

At  thy  kind  feet  ; 
Regretting  sore  their  broken  stems, 

Their  vanished  sweet. 

Yet  praying  that  their  faded  blue 

Some  type  may  be 

Oi  the  fair  badge  my  heart  shall  wear 

Always  for  thee  ! 
59 


"A   LITTLE  CHILD    SHALL    LEAD   THEM." 

HE  land  is  wondrous  fair,"  the  angel  said. 
"  Its  sapphire   skies   are  wrought  with 
■  tints  of  gold, 

Its  jewelled  gates  admit  nor  heat  nor  cold  ; 
And  all  along  the  way  that  you  shall  tread 
A  perfume  marvelously  sweet  is  shed, 
From  lilies  that  eternally  unfold." 

The  lovely  woman  raised  her  timid  face, 

And  to  the  messenger  of  death  she  spoke  : 

"  I  know  that  human  sight  can  not  invoke 

A  vision  of  such  fair,  surpassing  grace, 

As  those  fair  mansions  in  the  heavenly  place, 

But  life  and  I  have  never  friendship  broke. 
60 


"A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD  THEM." 

"  Therefore  I  fain  would  stay,"  she  pleaded  low. 

The  angel's  face  wore  nothing  of  command  ; 

He  smiling  said,  "  Behold,  unarmed  I  stand  ! 
I  left  behind  my  arrows  and  my  bow. 
I  shall  not  force  you,  lovely  one,  to  go  ; 

I  only  wait  till  you  shall  clasp  my  hand. 

"  But  even  now  your  eyes  are  wet  with  tears  : 

Come  where  a  holy  hand  will  wipe  them  dry  ! 
Oh,  be  my  bride,  my  own  beloved  !  and  I 
Will  kiss  away  your  doubtings  and  your  fears, 
And  lead  you  gently  through  the  eternal  years, 
And  prove  a  love  that  will  not  change  or  die  ! 

The  woman  shrank  from  his  caressing  hand. 

"  But  life  hath  loyal  love  as  well,"  she  said  ; 

"  A  trusting  heart  would  break  if  I  were  dead  : 

A  faithful  foot  would  track  me  to  your  land, 
61 


"A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD   THEM." 

And  at  the  gates  of  pearl  would  waiting  stand. 
This  life  is  fair  and  sweet  to  me,"  she  said. 


"The  swaying  reed  hath  not  a  frailer  grace 

Than    human    love.       It    will    not    mourn    you 

long  ; 
In   Heaven  your  voice  is  needed  in  the  song. 
Through  countless  ages  God  has  kept  your  place. 
Then,  in  my  bosom  hide  your  weeping  face, 
And  let  me  bear  you  to  the  waiting  throng." 

"  Nay,  nay,  sweet  angel !     Spare  me  this  alarm  ; 

For  I  am  timid  of  the  lonesome  way. 

A  voice  I  love  is  begging  me  to  stay  ! 

A  precious  hand  is  clinging  to  my  arm, — - 

A  hand  that  never  brought  me  pain  or  harm  ! 

Oh,  leave  me  now,  and  come  another  day  !  " 
62 


"A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD  THEM." 

The  angel  drew  her  close  and  whispered  sweet, 
"  Dear  heart  !   the  streets  are  fair  with   children 

there, 
God's  sunlight  hides  its  kisses  in  their  hair, 
And  everywhere  in  Heaven  a  child  you  meet." 
The  woman  clasped  his  hand,  and  toward  the  street 
So  bright  with  children,  smiling  went  the  pair. 


63 


OUR    BOBBY  WAS  PINCHING  THE    KITTEN. 

UR  Bobby  was  pinching  the  kitten, 
And  kicking  his  primer  about, 
And  pulling  a  beetle  to  pieces, 
His  face  all  awry  in  a  pout  ; 
His  mamma,  who,  patient  and  loving, 

Could  coax  her  dear  Bobby  no  more, 
Now  reached  for  the  whip  on  the  mantel — 
And  looked  at  her  boy  on  the  floor. 


But  grandma,  with  soft,  muslin  kerchief 

Pinned  over  her  warm,  loving  breast, 

Where  ten  little  heads  had  been  pillowed 

And  rocked  into  childhood's  sweet  rest, 
64 


OUR  BOBBY  WAS  PINCHING  THE  KITTEN. 

Looked  up  from  the  little  wool  stocking 
Just  finished  and  laid  on  her  knee, 

And  said,  "  Dear,  you'll  ruin  his  temper, 
You  had  far  better  let  the  child  be. 

"  Don't  whip  him — his  father  before  him 

Was  punished  and  shut  in  the  dark, 
And  stood  on  one  foot  in  the  corner, 

And  disciplined  up  to  the  mark  ; 
We  gave  him  no  credit  for  honor, 

But  watched  him  as  spiders  watch  flies. 
And  what  did  it  teach  him  ?     Why,  mainly 

To  practice  deceit  and  tell  lies. 

'  We  called  it  affection  and  duty — 

God  knows  we  were  fond  of  the  boy — 

But  I  guess  his  remembrance  of  childhood 

Is  not  quite  a  well-spring  of  joy. 
65 


OUR  BOBBY  WAS  PINCHING  THE  KITTEN. 

So  put  up  that  willow  whip,  daughter, 
And  try  little  Bobby  once  more. 

You  see  he's  forgotten  his  passion, 
And  lies  half  asleep  on  the  floor." 

Then  grandmother  lifted  her  darling, 

And  patted  his  head  on  her  breast, 
And  sang  in  a  tremulous  treble, 

Till  all  Bobby's  woes  were  at  rest. 
And  so  the  wee  whip,  bright  and  yellow, 

Was  laid  on  the  mantel  again — 
And  that  is  the  way  that  the  grandmas 

Spoil  nine  little  boys  out  of  ten. 


66 


s  £ 


THE   SLIGHTED    FLOWERS. 

HE  slept  ;  and  the  dream  of  Heaven, 
With  its  beautiful  surprise, 
Had  folded  the  silken  lashes, 
And  fastened  the  tender  eyes. 
And  the  peace  which  passeth  knowledge, 

Lay  like  a  ring  of  light, 
Fresh  from  the  hand  of  the  crowner 
On  her  brow,  unlined  and  white. 


She  lay  while  we  piled  the  lilies 

Like  drifts  of  odorous  snow 

On  the  breast,  whose  thoughts  were  whiter 

Than  milkiest  flowers  that  blow. 
69 


THE  SLIGHTED  FLOWERS. 

But  the  lily  dropped  its  petals 

In  vain,  on  the  upturned  face, 
And  the  idle  hands  unclasped  not, 

From  the  sloth  of  their  folded  grace. 

Unfelt,  were  the  scented  kisses 

Of  the  flowers  that  leant  on  her  brow  ; 
And  she  who  had  yearned  for  their  coming, 

Neglected  to  praise  them  now  ; 
She  slighted  the  dainty  odors 

Of  violets,  pallid  and  sweet, 
That  lay  like  a  track  of  beauty 

From  the  brow  to  the  unshod  feet. 

And  she  uttered  no  word  of  chiding, 

When  we  crushed  a  rose  in  our  hand  ; 

So  we  knew  by  these  silent  tokens 

She  had  gone  to  the  unknown  land. 
70 


THE  SLIGHTED  FLOWERS. 

Then  we  kissed  the  hair  on  her  forehead, 
And  gathered  a  tress  to  keep  ; 

And  then  with  the  rest  of  the  flowers 
We  left  her  to  silence  and  sleep. 


7t 


CHRISTMAS   ROSES. 

GAVE  into  a  brown  and  tired  hand 
A  stem  of  roses,  sweet  and  creamy  white. 
I  know  the  bells  rang  merry  tunes  that  night, 
For  it  was  Christmas  time  throughout  the  land, 
And  all  the  skies  were  hung  with  lanterns  bright. 


The  brown  hand  held  my  roses  gracelessly  ; 

They  seemed  more  white  within  their  dusky  vase 

A  scarlet  wave  suffused  the  woman's  face. 

"  My  hands  so  seldom  hold  a  flower,"  said  she, 

"  I  think  the  lovely  things  feel  out  of  place." 
72 


CHRISTMAS  ROSES. 

Oh,  tired  hands  that  arc  unused  to  (lowers  ! 

Oh,  feet  that  tread  on  nettles  all  the  way  ! 

God  grant  His  peace  may  fold  you  round  to-day, 
And  cling  in  fragrance  when  these  Christmas  hours, 

With  all  their  mirthfulness,  have  passed  away  ! 


73 


THE    BABY   OVER    THE  WAY. 

ICROSS  in  my  neighbor's  window, 

With  its  drapings  of  satin  and  lace, 
I  see,  with  its  crown  of  ringlets, 
A  baby's  innocent  face. 
His  feet  in  their  wee  red  slippers 
Are  tapping  the  polished  glass, 
And  the  crowd  in  the  street  look  upward, 
And  nod  and  smile  as  they  pass. 


Just  here  in  my  cottage  window, 

Catching  flies  in  the  sun, 

With  a  patch  on  his  faded  apron, 

Stands  my  own  little  one. 
7-i 


THE  BAB  Y  0  VER   THE    WA  Y. 

He  is  just  as  bright  and  handsome 

As  the  baby  over  the  way, 
And  he  keeps  my  heart  from  breaking 

At  my  toiling  every  day. 

Sometimes,  when  the  day  is  ended, 

And  I  sit  in  the  dusk  to  rest, 
With  the  face  of  my  sleepy  darling 

Close  to  my  lonely  breast, 
I  pray  that  my  neighbor's  baby 

May  not  catch  Heaven's  roses  all, 
But  that  some  may  crown  the  forehead 

Of  my  darling  as  they  fall. 

And  when  I  draw  the  stocking 

From  his  little  tired  feet, 
And  kiss  the  rosy  dimples 

In  his  limbs  so  round  and  sweet, 

75 


THE  BABY  OVER   THE   WAY. 

I  think  of  the  dainty  garments 
Some  little  children  wear, 

And  frown  that  God  withholds  them 
From  mine,  so  pure  and  fair  ' 

May  God  forgive  my  envy, 

I  knew  not  what  I  said  ! 
My  heart  is  crushed  and  humbled  ; 

My  neighbor's  boy  is  dead  ! 
I  saw  the  little  coffin 

As  they  carried  it  out  to-day, 
And  a  mother's  heart  is  breaking 

In  the  mansion  over  the  way  ! 

The  light  is  fair  in  my  window, 

The  flowers  bloom  at  my  door  ; 

My  boy  is  chasing  the  sunbeams 

That  dance  on  the  cottage  floor. 
76 


THE  BABY  OVER   THE   WAY. 

The  roses  of  health  are  crowning 
My  darling's  forehead  to-day  ; 

But  baby  is  gone  from  the  window 
Of  the  mansion  over  the  way  ! 


77 


A    FLOWER    SERMON. 


FOUND,  within  a  church-yard  gray, 
A  marigold  abloom  one  day, 
And  hotly  said,  "  O  saucy  elf, 
Shame  on  thy  pert  and  graceless  self 
To  flaunt  thy  robes  of  yellow  bloom 

Among  the  shadows  of  the  tomb, 

7S 


A  FLOWER  SERMON. 

And  o'er  the  faces  of  the  dead 
To  nod  thy  disrespectful  head  ! 
There  is  no  fitness  in  thy  dress, 
Nor  art  thou  modest,  thus  to  press 
Thy  gaudy  presence  in  the  place 
Where  gladness  never  shows  its  face." 


The  startled  flower  replied,  "  What  blame 

Have  I  to  borrow  ?     Or  what  shame 

Should  burn  my  cheeks,  because  I  wear 

This  yellow  dress,  which  is  my  share 

Of  Nature's  brightness,  given  to  grace 

The  sombre  shadows  of  this  place  ? 

I  can  not  harm  the  sleeping  dead 

Because  I  toss  my  golden  head  ; 

'Tis  all  God  meant  for  me  to  do, 

To  nod  and  smile  the  Summer  through. 
79 


A  FLOWER  SERMON. 

Xor  do  I  laugh  while  others  weep 
Through  any  malice,  but  to  keep 
God's  perfect  plan  for  my  small  life, 
Unmarred  by  dissonance  or  strife, 
For  this  I  bloom  beside  a  grave, 
And  wear  the  color  that  He  gave." 


I  turned  my  flushing  face  away  ; 

Xor  will  I  try  another  day 

To  question  any  thought  or  plan 

That  God  designs  for  flower  or  man. 

Some  lives  are  blithe  their  journey  through, 

While  others  earl}'  find  the  rue. 

Whatever  color  God  hath  wrought 

Into  our  life,  or  plan,  or  thought, 

He  knows  the  best.     There  is  no  flaw 

Nor  dullness  in  God's  perfect  law  ! 
80 


MY    MOTHER. 

Hi  HE  sweetest  face  in  all  the  world  to  me, 
Set  in  a  frame  of  shining  silver  hair, 
SS    With  eyes  whose  language  is  fidelity  : 
This  is  my  mother.     Is  she  not  most  fair  ? 

Ten  little  heads  have  found  their  sweetest  rest 
Upon  the  pillow  of  her  loving  breast  : 

The  world  is  wide  ;  yet  nowhere  does  it  keep 
So  safe  a  haven,  so  secure  a  rest. 

'Tis  counted  something  great  to  be  a  queen, 


And  bend  a  kingdom  to  a  woman  s  wi 

Si 


11. 


M  Y  MO  THER. 

To  be  a  mother  such  as  mine,  I  ween, 
Is  something  better  and  more  noble  still. 

0  mother  !  in  the  changeful  years  now  flown, 
Since,  as  a  child,  I  leant  upon  your  knee, 

Life  has  not  brought  to  me,  nor  fortune  shown, 
Such  tender  love  !  such  yearning  sympathy  ! 

Let  fortune  smile  or  frown,  whiche'er  she  will  ; 
It  matters  not,  I  scorn  her  fickle  ways  ! 

1  never  shall  be  quite  bereft  until 

I  lose  my  mother's  honest  blame  and  praise  ! 


I  F. 

F,  sitting  with  this  little  worn-out  shoe 

And  scarlet  stocking  lying  on  my  knee, 
I  knew  the  careless  feet  had  pattered  through 
The  pearl-set  gates  that  lie  'twixt  Heaven  and  me, 
And  I  could  see  beyond  the  mists  of  blue 
God's  tender  hand,  I  could  submissive  be. 


[raj 

H 

If,  in  the  morning,  when  the  song  of  birds 
Reminds  me  of  a  music  far  more  sweet, 

I  listen  for  his  pretty  broken  words 
And  for  the  music  of  his  dimpled  feet, 

I  could  be  almost  happy,  though  I  heard 

No  answer,  and  but  saw  his  vacant  seat. 
83 


IF. 

I  could  be  glad,  if,  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  all  its  cares  and  heartaches  laid  away, 

I  could  look  westward  to  the  hidden  sun, 

And,  with  a  heart  full  of  sweet  yearnings,  say, 

"  To-night  I'm  nearer  to  my  little  one 
By  just  the  travel  of  a  single  day." 

If  I  could  know  those  little  feet  were  shod 
In  sandals  wrought  of  light  in  better  lands, 

And  that  the  foot-prints  of  a  tender  God 
Ran  side  by  side  with  his  in  golden  sands, 

I  could  bow  cheerfully  and  kiss  the  rod, 
Since  Benny  was  in  wiser,  safer  hands. 

If  he  had  died,  as  little  children  do, 

I  would  not  stain  the  wee  sock  on  my  knee 

With  bitter  tears,  nor  kiss  the  empty  shoe 

And  cry,  "  Bring  back  again  my  little  boy  to  me ! 


IF. 

I  could  be  patient,  until  patience  grew 
Into  the  gladness  of  Eternity. 

But  oh,  to  know  the  feet  once  pure  and  white, 
The  haunts  of  vice  have  boldly  ventured  in  ! 

The  hands  that  should  have  battled  for  the  right 
Have  been  wrung  crimson  in  the  clasp  of  sin  ! 

And  should  he  knock  at  heaven's  gate  to-night, 
Alas  my  boy  could  scarce  an  entrance  win  ! 


85 


HIS   NAME. 

HEN  I  shall  go  where  my  Redeemer  is, 
In  the  far  City,  on  the  other  side, 
And  at  the  threshold  of  His  palaces 
Shall  loose  my  sandals  ever  to  abide, 
I  know  my  Heavenly  King  will  smiling  wait 
To  give  me  welcome  as  I  touch  the  sate. 


Oh,  joy  !  oh,  bliss  !  for  I  shall  see  His  face, 
And  wear  His  blessed  Name  upon  my  brow  ; 

That  Name  which  stands  for  pardon,  love  and  grace, 
That  Name  before  which  every  knee  shall  bow  : 

No  music  half  so  sweet  can  ever  be, 

As  that  dear  Name  which  He  shall  write  for  me. 
86 


HIS  NAME. 

Crowned  with  this  royal  signet  I  shall  walk, 

With  lifted  forehead  through  the  eternal  street, 

And  with  a  holier  mien  and  gentler  talk, 
Will  tell  my  story  to  the  friends  I  meet ; 

Of  how  the  King  did  stoop  His  Name  to  write 
Upon  my  brow  in  characters  of  light. 

Then,  till  I  go  to  meet  my  Father's  smile, 

I'll  keep  my  forehead  smooth  from  passion's  scars 

From  angry  frowns  that  trample  and  defile, 
And  every  sin  that  desecrates  and  mars, 

That  I  may  lift  a  face  unflushed  with  shame, 
Whereon  my  Lord  may  write  His  holy  Name  ! 


87 


FOUR. 

H,  wind  of  the  sweet  May  morning  ! 
Tell  me  the  rarest  thing, 
The  fittest  for  birth-day  token, 
That  your  rosy  hands  can  bring. 
Oh,  army  of  loving  mothers, 

Lend  me  your  counsel,  pray, 
And  tell  me  a  gift  for  a  darling 
Who  is  four  years  old  to-day  ! 


I  have  hunted  the  clover  meadow 

And  the  blossoming  orchards  through, 
For  a  bit  of  the  robin's  crimson, 

Or  the  jay-bird's  dainty  blue  ; 

88 


FOUR. 

But  robin,  at  home  with  her  babies, 

Was  having  a  holiday, 
And  when  I  made  love  to  the  blue-bird, 

She  whistled  and  fluttered  away. 

And  then  I  thought  of  the  violet, 

Sweetest  and  best  of  them  all. 
So  I  ran  to  catch  the  perfume 

That  her  purple  cloak  let  fall  ; 
But  in  vain  did  I  try  to  gather 

What  never  a  cup  can  hold, 
Though  for  every  breath  of  fragrance 

You  offer  a  world  of  gold. 

I  searched  in  the  highest  grasses 
For  an  echo  of  mellow  song 

That  the  sweet  thrush  left  behind  her 
As  she  merrily  flitted  along ; 


FOUR. 

But  she  flew  away  to  the  rushes 
And  hid  in  her  own  brown  nest, 

And  crooned  to  the  little  thrushes 
That  twittered  under  her  breast. 

I  sought  for  a  gift  uncommon. 

Oh,  say,  was  I  proud  and  wrong, 
To  ask  for  the  blue-bird's  color, 

Or  to  seek  to  prison  a  song  ? 
Was  it  like  a  foolish  mother 

To  try  in  her  hand  to  bring 
An  odor  of  purple  pansies, 

That  sweet,  intangible  thing? 

But  stay  !  I  have  thought  of  a  token  ! 

Surely  I  was  not  wise  ; 

Can  you  guess  what  gift  I  bring  you, 

By  the  light  that  shines  in  my  eyes  ? 
90 


FOUR. 

Tis  your  mother's  love,  my  darling, 
And  it  knows  no  change,  nor  death, 

It  is  truer  than  bluejay's  color, 
And  sweeter  than  violets'  breath  ! 

Though  you  may  not  grasp  nor  hold  it 

In  the  palm  of  your  small  brown  hand, 
Yet  you  can  carry  its  sweetness 

With  you  to  the  Better  Land. 
Then,  wind  of  the  soft  May  morning, 

What  have  you  that's  sweeter  to  lay 
At  the  feet  of  a  little  darling 

Who  is  four  years  old  to-day  ? 


91 


JAMIE'S    PRAYER. 

AY'S  weary  burdens  are  laid  by ; 

The  world's  great  throbbing  heart  is  still 
The  stars  flash  out,  the  moon's  fair  face 
Rests  on  the  peak  of  yonder  hill. 

I  hear  the  katydids  contend 

The  rustling  maple  leaves  among  ; 

And  leaning  toward  the  apple  boughs, 
I  hear  the  robin  brood  her  young. 

It  is  the  hour  when  children's  prayers, 

Like  perfume  from  the  lilies  rise, 

When  all  the  angels  cry,  "  Oh,  list  !  " 

And  God  makes  silence  in  the  skies. 
92 


JAMIE'S  PR  A  YER. 

Two  small  brown  hands,  unsoiled  by  sin, 
Are  folded  softly  on  my  knee, 

And  over  them  my  child's  dear  head 
Is  bowed  in  sweet  humility. 

Hark  to  the  little  honest  prayer! 

"  Dear  God,  I  am  too  tired  to  pray, 
And  'taint  as  if  you  didn't  know 

Just  all  I've  said  and  done  to-day. 

"  I  know  it  takes  a  sight  of  love 

To  make  a  boy's  sins  white,  but  then 
You  don't  go  back  on  what  you  say 
And  I  am  not  afraid — Amen." 


93 


**-?-^-'.--^ 


^^,:_; 


A    PRAYER. 

H,  long  strong  breaths  of  salt  sea  air. 

Oh,  north  winds  rough  and  south  winds  fair, 
Toss  all  your  rosy  gifts  about, 
And  blow  afar  our  weary  doubt  ! 


Milk-white  foam  roses,  break  for  me, 

From  the  green  gardens  of  the  sea. 

And  bring  thy  fragrance,  briny  sweet, 

To  wrap  our  love  from  brow  to  feet  ! 
94 


A    PR  A  YER. 

Bring"  rosy  color  to  her  mouth, 
And  from  the  warm  and  humid  South 
Waft  spices  to  the  fevered  breath, 
And  antidote  the  spell  of  death  ! 

And  from  thy  green  o'erflowing  cup 
My  hand  shall  dip  a  potion  up, 
And  in  thy  wine,  O  blessed  sea, 
With  relish  sweet  I'll  drink  to  thee  ! 

Then  kiss  her  back  to  health,  kind  sea, 
For  all  thy  treasures  can  not  be 
So  fair,  so  costly  as  this  pearl — 
This  drooping  lily  of  a  girl ! 


95 


CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

OD  bless  the  little  stockings 
All  over  the  land  to-night, 
Hung  in  the  choicest  corners 
In  a  glow  of  crimson  light  ! 
The  tiny  scarlet  stocking, 

With  a  hole  in  the  heel  and  toe, 
Worn  by  wonderful  journeys 
The  darlings  have  had  to  go. 


And  heaven  pity  the  children, 

Wherever  their  home  may  be, 

Who  wake  at  the  first  gray  dawning 

An  empty  stocking  to  see  ! 
96 


CHRIS TJiE IS  EVE. 

Left  in  the  faith  of  childhood 
Hanging  against  the  wall, 

Just  where  the  dazzling  glory 
Of  Santa's  light  will  fall  ! 

Alas,  for  the  lonely  mother 

Whose  home  is  empty  and  still, 
Who  has  no  scarlet  stockings 

With  childish  toys  to  fill  ! 
Who  sits  in  the  swarthy  twilight, 

With  her  face  against  the  pane, 
And  grieves  for  the  little  baby 

Whose  grave  lies  out  in  the  rain  ! 

Oh,  the  empty  shoes  and  stockings, 

Forever  laid  aside  ! 

Oh,  the  tangled,  broken  shoe-strings 

That  will  never  more  be  tied  ! 
97 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Oh,  the  little  graves  at  the  mercy 

Of  the  cold  December  rain  ! 
Oh,  the  feet  in  their  snow-white  sandals, 

That  never  can  trip  again  ! 

But  happier  they  who  slumber, 

With  marble  at  foot  and  head, 
Than  the  child  who  has  no  shelter, 

No  raiment,  nor  food,  nor  bed. 
Yes  !  heaven  help  the  living  ! 

Children  of  want  and  pain, 
Knowing  no  fold  nor  pasture — 

Out  to-night  in  the  rain  ! 


93 


WAITING. 

HEN  the  crickets  chirp  in  the  evening 
And  the  stars  flash  out  in  the  sky, 
I  sit  in  my  lonely  doorway 
And  watch  the  children  go  by  ; 
I  look  at  their  fresh  young  faces, 
And  hark  to  each  merry  word, 
For  to  me  a  child's  own  language 
Is  the  sweetest  ever  heard. 


And  so  I  sit  in  the  doorway 

In  the  hour  that  I  love  the  best, 

And  think,  as  I  see  them  passing. 

My  child  will  come  with  the  rest  ; 
99 


WAITING. 

Think,  as  I  hear  the  clicking 

Of  the  little  garden  gate, 
My  darling's  hand  is  upon  it — 

Oh,  why  has  she  come  so  late  ? 

But  the  days  have  been  slowly  weaving 

Their  warp  of  toil  in  my  life  ; 
The  weeks  have  rolled  on  me  their  burden 

Of  waiting  and  patience  and  strife  ; 
The  flowers  that  came  with  the  sunshine 

Have  finished  their  errand  so  sweet, 
And  Autumn  is  dropping  her  harvests 

Mellow  and  ripe  at  my  feet. 

And  yet  my  little  girl  comes  not, 
And  I  think  she  has  missed  her  way, 

And  strayed  from  this  cold,  dark  country 
To  one  of  perpetual  day. 


WAITING. 

I  think  that  the  angels  have  found  her, 

And  loving  her  well,  as  did  we. 
Have  begged  the  Good  Father  to  keep  her 

Right  on  through  eternity. 

Perhaps.     But  I  long  to  enfold  her, 

To  tangle  my  hand  in  her  hair, 
To  feast  my  starved  mouth  on  her  kisses. 

To  hear  her  light  foot  on  the  stair. 
I  am  but' a  poor  selfish  mother, 

And  mother-hearts  starve,  though  they  know 
Their  children  are  drinking  the  nectar 

From  lilies  in  heaven  that  blow. 

Some  day  I  am  sure  I  shall  find  her, 
But  the  road  is  so  lonesome  between, 

My  spirit  grows  sick  and  impatient 

For  a  glimpse  of  the  pastures  so  green  ; 

IOI 


WAITING. 

Till  then  I  shall  sit  in  the  doorway, 
In  the  hour  that  my  heart  loves  best, 

And  think,  when  the  children  pass  homeward, 
My  child  will  come  with  the  rest. 


IN    PRISON. 

OD  pity  the  wretched  prisoners 
In  their  lonely  cells  to-day. 
Whatever  the  sins  that  tripped  them, 
God  pity  them,  still  I  say. 


Only  a  strip  of  sunshine, 
Cleft  by  rusty  bars  ; 

Only  a  patch  of  azure, 

Only  a  cluster  of  stars  ; 

Only  a  barren  future 

To  starve  their  hope  upon, 

Only  stinging  memories 

Of  love  and  honor  gone  : 
103 


IN  PRISON. 

Only  scorn  from  women, 

Only  hate  from  men, 
Only  remorse  to  whisper 

Of  a  life  that  might  have  been. 

Once  they  were  little  children, 

And  perhaps  their  unstained  feet 
Were  led  by  a  gentle  mother 

Toward  the  golden  street  ; 
Therefore,  if  in  life's  forest 

They  since  have  lost  their  way, 
For  the  sake  of  her  who  loved  them, 

God  pity  them,  still  I  say. 

O  mothers,  gone  to  heaven  ! 

With  earnest  heart  I  ask 

That  your  eyes  may  not  look  earthward 

On  the  failure  of  your  task  ! 
104 


IN  PRISON. 

For  even  in  those  mansions 

The  choking  tears  would  rise, 

Though  the  fairest  hand  in  Heaven 

Would  wipe  them  from  your  eyes  ! 

And  you,  who  judge  so  harshly, 

Are  you  sure  the  stumbling-stone 
That  tripped  the  feet  of  others 

Might  not  have  bruised  your  own  ? 
Are  you  sure  the  sad-faced  angel 

Who  writes  our  errors  down, 
Will  ascribe  to  you  more  honor 

Than  to  him  on  whom  you  frown  ? 

Or,  if  a  steadier  purpose 

Unto  your  life  is  given  ; 
A  stronger  will  to  conquer, 

A  smoother  path  to  heaven  ; 

105 


IN  PRISOX. 

If,  when  temptations  meet  you, 
You  crush  them  with  a  smile  ; 

If  you  can  chain  pale  passion 

And  keep  your  lips  from  guile, 

Then  bless  the  Hand  that  crowned  you, 

Remembering,  as  you  go, 
'Twas  not  your  own  endeavor 

That  shaped  your  nature  so  ; 
And  sneer  not  at  the  weakness 

Which  made  a  brother  fall, 
For  the  hand  that  lifts  the  fallen 

God  loves  the  best  of  all  ! 

And  pray  for  the  wretched  prisoners 

All  over  the  land  to-day, 

That  a  holy  Hand  in  pity 

May  wipe  their  guilt  away. 
106 


Smith     Mr  a. 

Mav    fRilAvT             b??b 

A  gift  of|  gentians." 

g«= 

M26458S 


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